Flowers From Erik
by Robin's Wife
Summary: "I've never known frank fear, nor have I ever known frank love. I didn't mean to come to Paris for Love, and yet, I received flowers, from Erik."
1. A White Rose For Innocence

**Flowers From Erik**

**Chapter One: A White Rose For Innocence **

**By: Robin's Wife**

**Genre: Romance/Moving On/Angst**

**Rating: It's Currently T But It Will Move On To M**

**Description: "I've never known frank fear, nor have I ever known frank love. I didn't mean to come to Paris for Love, and yet, I received flowers, from Erik."**

**(***)**(Flora's P.O.V.)**(***)**

I had the gracious honor of being imported from Iraq and shipped to France. Importantly however, I was shipped to _Paris_, France; even more importantly however, I was shipped to the Palais Garnier a building of exquisite architecture that was unfortunately lacking in greenery. It was little my decision to accept my invitation in coming here but as the nature of the letter seemed urgent that the ascetics of the Opera House were anything less than pleasing and that fact itself was beginning to pop up in the reviews the Opera House as a whole.

And so I came when called. Honestly, I cannot bring myself to lie and say that I didn't enjoy coming to see the grand palace-like building myself, even _I _enjoyed a fine opera. And after a long journey very much to the delight of my dear distant relative: Monsieur Andre I arrived at the luscious building a bit after noon clasped in a tight fitting blue corset that made my chest ache a bit. I wasn't quite used to wearing it, but from what I was told it was all the rage to French women everywhere. I might as well embrace a bit of my French heritage after all it made up half of who I was. Where ever did all my French pride go? It was oh so abundant as a child.

"Ah, can it truly be little Flora‽ You look remarkable, how difficult it must be to fend the boys off, please do not grow any older, look how you hurt me so." With a woeful face but loving eyes he welcomed me into his embrace and I immediately remembered why I had so much pride in my French roots as a wee child.

"I've missed you so, Andre." My lips arched into an amiable smile.

"That's Great Uncle Andre to you, mademoiselle." His finger-tips lightly drummed against my nose.

"But you simply cannot be Great Uncle Andre, you've gotten older, you're Great-_great _Uncle Andre now." If there was one man I felt comfortable enough to allow my sharp tongue to slip, it was him. He had always been the one to encourage it.

He hummed softly "Too smart for your own good. Still. I know the grey's showing, don't point it out." He chuckled. "The wrinkles however, they are bold and brash and not about to fade but alas, enough chatter about my old age. Why don't I show you the predicament?"

When he frowned, my dear relative seemed to get older and with his interesting choice of words I failed to believe that the visual aspects of the Opera House were all that plagued his mind and yet I didn't pry.

The Populaire was beyond breathtaking. A literal God had built it, that much was certain. With his love, and with his care it was built to instill in every human alive: man, woman, and child a like that it was completely possible to not even fall but tumble down the rough hill of love with a building. Exploring it was an honor and touching its gold embellishments and thick smoothed stone and granite walls were enough to drive me into wanderlust. There was beauty in the Middle East, but for some reason there was something about the Populaire that made everything else seem inferior to me.

That being said, the greenery was atrocious. The weeds were growing weeds and the insects. Allah help me, the _insects _would make a grown man duck for cover. Whoever built the opera house with all his love ceased with building it alone, ignoring that such a bewitching woman needed even more ravishing clothing.

"Who could neglect something that gives so much life, and color?" I was bewildered, and I was not going to hide it from my great uncle, even if he was the owner.

"I know, I know." He rubbed his eyes with his first finger and thumb.

"With all the renovations…"

"From the inferno." I added.

"Yes." His eyes dulled out and his voice got grim "From the fire… it seems as though coaxing dear, dear Mother Nature to produce her buds of beauty was put to the very, very bottom of the list."

"It's a shame… such an endearing location. It could be filled to the brim with exotic flowers of yellows, and blues, pinks and purples." For some reason, something drew me to the center where a magnificent marble angel stood.

"And here…" I said in a preliminary undertone.

"And here there shall be roses. Red roses." I turned to him, the attentive whisper in my voice vanishing.

"Roses." He repeated.

"Roses, my dear…if that's all you want, I can have a dock full of there seeds here by morning." He finalized.

**(***)**(Erik's P.O.V.)**(***)**

My worn, tired hands had built for the Shahs of Persia. My worn, tired hands produced music that made Hoffman, Chopin, Bellini, and Berlioz rise from their collective graves and weep. My worn, tired hands built this opera house with paroxysm and an endless amount of perspiration.

Listening to such a peremptory small whelp dare declare that my opera house, my _home _was atrocious and indeed awoke a dark haze in my chest that made me want to cast a large cloud of despair and torture onto the spry brat. Keeping a fierce eye on her and following her was not quite difficult. She was wearing a very blue dress that contrasted with her olive skin.

Olive skin on a European, especially one in France was not entirely unheard of. It was however uncommon and hearing from more than one account that Tweedle-Imbecile, the other half to Tweedle-Idiot was an avid racist. Her being of African descent was unlikely, with the amount of disgust he had at the cart-boy who had handed him the young urchin's luggage. It was obvious that it would be a cold day in Hell when he would smile with such adoration in his eyes at an African. That being said after staring at her for quite some time, the veil slowly lifted off my eyes and it dawned on me that she was indeed Middle Eastern, Iraqi in fact. She was far too pale to be fully Iraqi though, and far too dark to be a full French woman all the same. She was split directly down the middle but by the looks of how delicately she walked she had spent far more time in the Middle East.

It was such a shame; she had already started on the wrong foot when it came to me. If only the tiny fool knew that the man she stood before was not in fact the real owner of the Opera House. No, I scoffed. He should have been gone long ago.

"Changing your schedule from nocturnal to join the rest of us, Erik?" I was torn away from watching the girl and the moron any longer from the all too familiar condescending tone of a certain past Prima Ballerina.

"Giry, I'm simply ensuring that the dunderhead stays within his barriers." I faced the woman that had lost her elegance in dance, but hadn't lost her grace in any way.

"I believe you were looking at the girl." She raised an eyebrow.

"The little brat." I hissed in return.

Her later eyebrow joined the raised one. "Little brat." She mocked. "Really Erik? I've barely heard her speak, not even you can have such a grave opinion of her just so."

"In fact, Giry, I can." I replied in a half-hearty sing-song tone.

"It's atrocious to her, apparently."

"Pardon? I'm afraid I don't quite understand, do shed some light." She replied dryly.

"The greenery is atrocious. And that makes the Opera House atrocious." I turned back to look down at the brat and the fool.

"Well it is." She replied with a small shrug resting her left hand onto her right upon her obsidian cane.

"Par-don." I paused slightly in the middle turning allowing the malice in my eyes to show.

"It's beyond offal Erik, even you have to admit that. You've let the outside of this place go to ruin, after letting most of it burn you're lucky it was repaired so lavishly. And where were you to foresee it? Running about, depressed after the loss of your muse." She let all of her words flow without falter. Giry had always been one to run her mouth.

Her eyes glittered with the same malice mine did, never faltering.

"Oh I'm _so _shamefaced! Please do hunt down the affection that's left in your stony soul to forgive me!" I laughed spitefully partially to myself and partially to her.

"I was _'running about'_ from the police, Hell! I was _'running about' _from all of France!" I thrust my hands up into the air and bowed. Leaving Giry to see such an eccentric hateful bow I hoped she felt my gall cascading from the core of my very being.

"But I still _implore _you;_ do _find it in your heart to forgive me!"

Her cane slammed onto the ground. In my youth I recall flinching away from the sharp sound the thud made. Now however, as a man I stood staring down at her. My age made me tall, and her age made her short.

"Do not be so quick to throw the blame to me Erik. This was _your _doing. The fire was _your_ fault, the Opera House being nearly destroyed was _your_ fault."

She took a threatening step closer to me, if she were anyone else; she would die where she stood.

"All because you couldn't keep _your_ envy under control." "And _yes_, Flora being here is your doing. So you will leave her to fix another piece of _your _mess. The greenery is offensive to me, and I did not lay a hand to build this place or what surrounds it. Be happy you don't have to clean up _your_ own mess or in your case, sweep it under the carpet and hope it's never found."

Giry left me to my own devices with heavy clanks of her cane onto the ground.

Giry left me to ponder what she had said to me.

Giry left me to slowly begin to comprehend that my head had been buried deep within the ground for the year and a half it had taken for the Opera House, my _home_ to be rebuilt.

**(***)**(Flora's P.O.V.)**(***)**

"I don't need a formal introduction, Uncle, please. I'm just the florist, not the Prima Donna." My uncle would have simply none of it; my presence would be announced to all of the Opera House and its members both new and old.

"Please do cease with the shyness Flora, honestly… aren't you a little too old to be so flustered around new people." He turned to me with a gleaming grin.

"I'm not shy. I just don't think I'm as important as your musing." I sighed deeply.

"Nonsense. If you are to treat a peasant as a princess, you a humble florist as you call yourself will be announced as a Prima Donna would be."

"I never called myself humble, I'm just…"

"Shy." He called out starting to get ahead of me. "You're just shy, dear."

"I'm just happier to be behind the curtain, never in front of it like a performer." I took longer strides to keep up with my uncle. The faster he walked away, the more I knew he was searching to end the discussion.

"You're not a stagehand Flora, you're a lovely girl, what would your mother say if I was so busy making you arrange flowers not even introducing you to men."

"Didn't you imply you _didn't _want any men near me when I got here?" I countered.

"Still, what would your mother say?" He turned the corner.

I stopped and sighed.

"الشرف هو الزواج، وفلورا بيل" (Arabic Translation: Honor is Marriage, Flora Belle)

"Indeed, if there's one thing I'll bother to remember in your second tongue, it's that, now go freshen up and be ready for your big debut." He chuckled.

"Prima-Donna."

**Disclaimer: I do not own the POTO Franchise **

**Claimer: I do own my character Flora**

**Author's Note: I've finally gotten off to writing again and my passion for POTO has been sparked again so here's my first chapter! I hope you all enjoy it. Please leave your thoughts!**

**Your Obedient Servant**

**-A**


	2. Strange Is The Tiger-Lilly

**Flowers From Erik**

**Chapter Two: Strange Is The Tiger-Lilly **

**Rating For This Chapter: Still T With Some Very Minor Suggestive Content **

"_**Oh come now everyone! She's a girl just like us, with gloriously sun-kissed skin eh…"**_

**(***)**(Erik's P.O.V.)**(***)**

I haven't allowed myself the luxury of slumber. I haven't allowed myself the pleasure of music and for that I haven't allowed myself to honestly live or to achieve what is even near the term 'living.' Giry had always been gifted with a sharp tongue and a disapproving tone. Even now her skill had never staggered, and currently just the same as every childhood scolding I had ever witnessed her voice came oozing into the air no matter how much I tried to drown it out with my own thoughts.

She was right.

I am not familiar with being wrong, at least not aloud. Inside my head however, I have always been wrong. I'm everlastingly condemning myself for my actions and my thoughts. And somehow, a lecture from the finely aged Prima Ballerina was digging its way into my mood.

"So what am I to do?" I percolated to the damp air. "Send flowers to _apologize_ to the impudent child?" I added sarcastically.

"Oh Giry would enjoy that." I folded my arms onto my chest.

"I apologize in the earnest for my ill thoughts of you, I do pray you'll accept my sincerest regrets for what I've said far out of your range of hearing. Enjoy these roses. XOXO, O.G." I spread my arms to bow extravagantly might I add, to the mental image I had conjured up of the little brat.

"_No_." I raised my head.

"O.G. That's _so _impersonal. Why not try, Your Friend, Erik." I felt my entire body cringe.

"Really Erik, You must learn to be a tad more of a _people_ person." I bitterly declared.

I sat before my organ. I was getting to be unhinged. Being alone for so long, being alone _here _without _her _for so long. I shut my eyes, her tantalizing caress against my cheek made me shudder. She was there, her angelic voice, her full lips, her Exhilarant figure, her creamy, so, so creamy skin. I felt a fire grow within my chest that spread between my legs.

_Damn me, she'll always be here_. I sighed to myself. She was _always _going to be there, and I suppose she always _was_ there even in the beginning. I had become so much more aware of the amount of time in my life that laid there scandalously before me. And as God's my witness, I resent it.

**(***)**(Flora's P.O.V.)**(***)**

The first thing I recall spotting before I was flat on my back on the ground, was a flaxen haired sprite. She popped up from her place on the ground before I could rise and hung over me spewing out apologies in a soft tone. Never had I been so bombarded with so many words from someone with such a quiet voice.

"I'm terribly sorry, horribly so, my can you believe I'm a dancer. I'm just oh so clumsy I beg you, do forgive me, you're not hurt are you?" She was talkative but it was endearing all the same. I had yet to meet someone who spoke to me without staring to make me uncomfortable.

She looked at me with her glistering, and incredibly lively blue eyes but she did not stare, a rare occurrence for being a quite tanned girl with exotic features in the middle of France. The men's stares and the women's stares always differed. I can't be sure which made me more uncomfortable.

"There's no genuine harm done do not worry anymore about it." I lent her a smile; she was a pretty thing, very slender with strong legs. She was a ballet dancer, evident by not only her legs but her white tutu, the tulle spilled over just past her knees.

"You're too, too kind…" A child like wander arose in her eyes. "Here's a second apology because, I'm sorry but I don't happen to know your name."

"I wouldn't expect you to; I'm Flora...Flora Abel." My head bobbed a bit in a small nod at the final syllable of my last name. I nearly expected her to scoff or laugh; you never knew what you would get from these French people. They weren't blunt in their words but they were blunt with their actions. A girl with olive skin but a French last name can be quite unnatural and quite discombobulating to the naturally pale citizens of Paris.

I didn't get my typical reaction which came as quite a shock which I showed.

"That's a lovely name, Flora." She tasted the name on her tongue. "It's very sweet, I'm Marguerite Elisabeth Giry, Do call me Meg." Her blue bright eyes seemed to glow even brighter.

"I outgrew Marguerite at the ripe age of four." She looked to the side and sighed. For a wink she seemed to be perplexed with her own thoughts and memories until her blonde head shifted back towards me with a new interest.

"Are you a dancer also? A chorus girl, perhaps?"

"No, and no I'm afraid I'm not as interesting as you'd hoped." I bit my tongue a bit. I didn't exactly want to talk about my dear uncle just yet. Envy was a homely creature that could overtake even the kindest of doe eyed and mousey ballet girls. Having a male family member in a place of power was troubling to just about every performer you'd meet. I had a connection as much as I didn't need it, I had a large connection and that made me the target for envy.

"Oh don't sell yourself short Flora! Do tell what welcomes you to his little Song-House." She chimed.

_His _I thought rather eminently. Had Firman stepped down or entirely _out _of his position?

If you would take the time to watch as the weather changed over time, it was the equivalent of Meg's facial expression. She noticed the error of her comment. I couldn't quite place what she was feeling. It was a mixture of self-loathing, introspective, and all together not with reality. I never got to ask her just what she meant by "His." It could have been a mistake in her words. Rather quickly however I've realized mistakes and accidents were never truly what they appeared to be.

"Marguerite Giry, how many times must I continue to chase you, child?" Her voice was strong and rather candid.

Something else about her voice and her dark appearance made her seem far taller than she was. It added to her threatening nature quite flatteringly.

"I just ran off to get my other shoes Mama and then I knocked down this poor girl… her name is Flora, and I couldn't just soil the years, and years of manners you taught me and leave her without an apology." Meg looked at me for a moment and simply stated "Madame Giry is her title."

Interesting I thought, title and not name.

Meg was quick witted. She knew it, and her mother knew it. Her worn tired eyes had not just come from age. Meg was a handful, this much was already clear.

"You were with Monsieur Andre some time ago, no?" She examined me with premeditating eyes.

"Yes, I was… as I was about to explain to Meg I came here for the foliage of the Opera House, I'm a florist you see." I replied suddenly feeling the need to eye my dainty shoes. Her splintery gaze had that effect on me.

"A florist‽ How lovely!" Meg chimed in next to me truly delighted by my work with flowers.

"Quite. May I ask if you're trying to locate something? What with you seemingly wandering about the halls?" She was awfully good at being rather perceptive and giving off a _hint_ of a disapproving nature.

"Well I… was just going to freshen up you see." I answered. I didn't want to talk about my uncle to Meg let alone this new... character was the only way I could describe her. Madame Giry did not need to know anything about my relations. She seemed like the type that could bend and twist anything even people to her will.

Meg squealed to my right. "Oh I can help! With all this chat, the other girls must be spending their time freshening up as well, I simply adore makeovers." Her eyes glimmered over to her mother feverishly and hopingly.

"Five minutes, then more practice." I had never expected anyone to break so quickly, let alone Madame Giry who I had deduced to have a heart of granite, or perhaps coal fit her better.

Before I had time to process what to say next or what to do next my wrist was grabbed between two soft skinned hands and I was being lurched forward. We turned a corner and skidded through a long and thin hallway into a much larger room behind a grand stage. Here, backstage was where the magic that was the dancers took place.

Hair pins, perfume, lipstick, and just the essence of girl in its purest form less greeted me and more slapped me in the face.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet my new friend! Flora, Flora Albel!" She announced with a doting grin pulling at her lips and tickling her eyes.

"She's so… so… exotic." I heard a girl to my right awkwardly grope for words and when she did uncomfortably jingle out.

There was a curse when it came to an abnormal type of beauty. I had learned these carefully spoken words of wisdom from my mother. As I aged I learned the honesty behind those words. What was different was threatening. And what was threatening was shunned, cast-out, discarded or tucked underground.

No one seemed to find anything wrong with the girl (whose name was Charlotte)'s comment. Not even Meg batted a lengthy blonde eyelash.

"I do hope that isn't meant in ill will, I can assure you I'm part French." I returned, trying very hard not to sound spiteful.

"French?! You can't be!" Lydia, a small girl with almost blonde hair chortled.

"I did say 'part.' I reminded perhaps a bit sarcastically.

"You're still so…dark!" Charlotte bellowed.

"Oh come now everyone! She's a girl just like us, with gloriously sun-kissed skin eh?" Meg's soft spoken voice startled everyone even me, as she swept her hand through the air to motion to my arms and face.

"It is very pretty!" Lydia grinned seeing nothing wrong with what she had said before.

_I'm not that terribly dark, am I? _I wandered to myself. _No, I'm just not Irish-skinned, nor Welsh-skinned, nor British-skinned, and I suppose not terribly, terribly French-skinned as well. But all the same I am French. _I mused trying to keep my spirits up. I didn't hate Meg for the comment. Nor did I completely write her off as a person for me to get along with.

She was just a bit ignorant but all the same I was shocked and a bit touched that she tried her best to turn what could have been an ugly and very uncomfortable argument into a kinder less awkward conversation.

"You simply _must _tell us where you're from!" Charlotte combed her fingers through her hair with a polite and tasteful roll of her lips at the word must.

"I'm from the Middle-East particularly, Saudi Arabia. I'm French on my father's side…Arabic on my mothers."

"What a superb coincidence!" Meg tinkled. "The dance for opening night's Opera is Arabic!"

"Isn't that lovely‽ We'll be honoring your heritage!" Charlotte was a bit dim-witted I could already tel.

"Half my heritage." I added as politely as I could.

"Oh she _must _sit front row at our performance." Lydia, Charlotte, and now the entire rest of I would say eight or nine ballet girls ignored me. Even Meg seemed to get swallowed up into the chatter of the performance.

"Oh Flora, you simply must dance with us!" Meg giddily chortled.

Two of the taller of the collection of girls took my arms and guided me forward to get me shoes. Behind me I heard "Don't worry; we'll go easy on you!" A titter of laughter filled the room shortly after Charlotte's comment.

I knew how to dance. I knew how to dance the way I was taught by my mother, and how her mother taught her, and how her mother's mother had taught her. It was an art passed down from generation to generation that never lost one thing, passion. When my ancestors danced, when I danced, I dance with a flaming passion that warmed my core and escaped through my movements.

The floor burned when that passion touched the ground. I couldn't help but be a bit infuriated by the fact that these glittering Pale sprites were going to attempt to dance a dance that was not meant for them.

Even so, I smiled and nodded as delightedly as I could when Meg looked to me for approval. The petite shoes hurt my feet a bit at the ankle but forced my foot to pointe harder. I suppose that was the point of them.

I followed Meg's lead for a bit with the dance, but shortly after I found myself going through the motions of a different, and yes, I shall be conceited and say much better dance then this washed out form of half my culture's pride. In short, I danced. I danced how I remembered

**(***)**(Erik's P.O.V.)**(***)**

To distract myself from my loss of control in my lair, I _unfortunately _had to abandon my period of self-loathing and lack of self-confidence. I decided the best way to abandon those feelings was to wander the Opera House to ensure everything was in the order I'd like it to be.

For a bit of time, I foresaw the construction of the lobby. The Opera House already had a schedule date to open even if it was still under construction. Stage hands and workers littered the ground as they ran about talking and working but seemingly talking more then they ought to be.

I quickly tired of them, so I took my leave and wandered about until I found myself drawn to the stage watching some of the ballet girls perform. It had been quite some time since I heard much singing in my Opera House. There was singing that, I could not deny but there wasn't _her_ version of singing any longer. Even so I listened to the singing with slight disdain but all the same it distracted me from my own thoughts so I tried to welcome it.

I got sick of it far too quickly however and I soon found myself listening in to my dear, _dear_ idiots. Who gladly refer to themselves as managers.

"Poppycock Firman! Simply, poppycock!" Andre yelled to the heavier man.

"It's Nepotism Andre! This is honestly doing nothing for my nerves, she's your niece!" Firman growled in return practically about to bash the other fools head into the wall.

"Your nerves… I've heard enough about your nerves." Andre folded his hands behind his neck to focus on what he thought was more important than this little scuffle (Better being the portrait of the past Prima Donna on the wall).

"What do you think the other employees will say‽" The overweight pig boomed.

"If they do say anything, I imagine you'll shut them down. It isn't like you've done it before on your selfish account. Now, Firman, let's not speak of this anymore. She's our florist, not our chorus girl, not our ballet rat, not our Prima Ballerina, and certainly not our Leading Lady." "Now, why don't you put on your best smile and listen to me as I welcome her to the Opera House." Andre left Firman before he could say anymore.

I recalled once long ago it had been Andre who would panic, and Firman who would have to silence him. What was it they'd always chatter about? Never to silence because Firman was concerned with…ah yes… _publicity_.

If they expected to get any sort of publicity with the current state of the dancers he was awfully off his rocker. But why stand in the way of what I no longer had the privilege to change? I'd be damned if I'd have my Opera House taken from me again, with it being permanent no doubt the second time.

I took my leave of the office seeing as Firman was not going to put on more of a show except for the occasional muffled curse to Andre and his kin.

I found myself following the very soft tap of feet on the stage's ground. The little ballet girls were dancing. If I tried very hard, I could remember a few of their names. _Charlotte… Rebecca… Claudette, _and of course the littlest of the small Giry clan: Meg Giry. With the scare of the Inferno some may have thought Meg with her supposed weak heart would have fled. I am ashamed to say I was part of that some who figured she would.

Dancing ran in her blood that much was so. Only blood could make a girl stay in a horror show. A horror show she knew more then she cared to, a horror where her mother knew even more then her, a horror show that wouldn't stop. I was sure she knew I was still live and as well as I could be wandering about the dismal underground caverns.

Her mother couldn't lie to her anymore. Meg was getting to be older; she wasn't a child any longer. How much can you tell childish lies to an adult?

The dance they practiced was lovely but lacking. I couldn't exactly place its origin. It could be anywhere from Spaniard, Russian or… Arabic? The footing referenced it but there was a girl close to Meg that put her hips into a motion that drew me in to Arabia.

I was not in my usual box. I couldn't be. That was far too obvious and if even one of the ballet dancers saw a glimpse of my shadow. Everything would be over, I trusted my own skills but not enough to risk my cover again. So I was reduced to squinting, I recognized the careful way she moved. She was tentive and very charming on the dance floor.

She has widened hips that were very different in reference to the other girls. Her hips weren't natural French, that was certain. Her chest was smaller than any of the other girls with no hope of growing any larger than the small size she was obviously pressing. But when she turned, her posterior made up for the lack of her chest.

The realization threw me for a loop. It was the fool's little nuisance of a niece. My head spun with irritation, confusion, and bewilderment. I knew she wasn't a dancer, she wasn't _supposed_ to be. She was _supposed_ to be sharing her stupidity with Andre, regarding the _pathetic, hideous, greenery. _

Someone had to hear about this, someone like Giry… Or Andre, or Firman, Or Carlotta, The fop. I'll just send a note… yes that's what I'll do.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, Everyone _please_!" Andre raised his voice to catch everyone's attention. "Stop working, all of you, stop dancing, singing, whatever it is you're doing." He smiled at Flora's direction and her lack of color.

"I can see some of the ballet girls have already welcomed my dear Flora into their practices. But she is no dancer." "Flora, come up here, yes, yes, right this way, in front of me, give us a bow." Flora walked as if she was in a dream, awkwardly losing all of her grace in her dance.

"This is Flora, Flora Abel. She is my niece and the new Florist at the Opera House." "If you have any questions regarding the Garden, greenery is her _expertise_." He stressed.

"What a Tiger Lilly." A stage hand chided in some unknown direction drunken with interest.

**Disclaimer: I do not own the POTO Franchise**

**Claimer: I do own my character: Flora Abel**

**Author's Note: It took me so long to finish this, but I do hope you all enjoy this! As always, reviews are welcomed and deeply appreciated. I really, really appreciate all the reviews I've gotten for far.**

**Your Obedient Servant**

**-A **


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